


Eat Fresh

by itallstartedwithdefenestration



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Brief Lori/Rick, Coffee shop au except it's Subway, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9135490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallstartedwithdefenestration/pseuds/itallstartedwithdefenestration
Summary: Rick didn't really hate his job at Subway. Then Negan started coming in.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So a while back I made [this post](http://interstellarsam.tumblr.com/post/154007882825/okay-but-consider-negan-in-a-no-apocalypse-au), and then I decided I needed to actually write it as a fic. There are many coffee shop aus and coffee shop aus are great, but there are not nearly enough Subway aus and I love Subway and so here we are.
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone ~

“He’s here,” Michonne hisses sharply, and that’s all the warning Rick gets before the door swings open. Loudly. He tries to slip off his hairnet and his gloves but it’s too late, Negan’s already seen him and is moving forward with unexpected agility for a man his size. He stops at the sandwich counter, slams his hands down so hard on the wire chip holder Rick half-expects, as he does every time, for it to break. 

“Rick!” Negan booms over the glass partition. “You gonna make my sandwich right today, gorgeous?”

Rick doesn’t look up. One time, weeks ago when this all started, he tried making eye contact with Negan and found it relatively on the same level of monumentally dangerous and stupid as making eye contact with a tiger in heat. Since then he’s kept his head down every time Negan comes in here for his lunch—which, unfortunately for Rick, is every time he’s on the midday shift. “I’ll certainly try,” he says to the cheese. 

From the top of his head he thinks he can see Negan grinning. “Well, you know what I like,” he says, still loud. Swinging his hips a little. Next to Rick Maggie, putting the vegetables on, is biting a smile into her cheek. In a minute she’s going to get to ring her customer up at the cash register, and then in another three minutes her boyfriend, Glenn, is going to come in from the pizzeria down the street and they’re going to have lunch in his car. Her life is going by just fine. 

Rick turns, grabs a footlong Italian loaf off the bread rack. Negan’s eyes follow his hands as he grabs the pepperoni first, six slices, then the salami, then the ham, then the Provolone cheese. Never any other order. Each slice laid down overlapping the other at the same angle. Rick tried to explain once that it doesn’t really matter because the food all gets shuffled around in the toaster anyway, but Negan’s ideas about sandwiches are as rigid in code as the rules of Disneyland. 

He slides it in the toaster, glances over his shoulder. Maggie’s just finishing up with her customer, heading into the back. Rick never realized the true meaning of envy until his shifts started overlapping hers. 

“You watchin’ my sandwich there, Rick?” Negan asks. It’s not really something Rick’s ever been able to explain to him—the toaster beeps when it’s done. The toaster is never wrong. Etc., etc. Apparently, though, Negan doesn’t trust electronic devices, or maybe he has bad experiences with toasters at his own home, because for quality assurance purposes Rick has been made to stand at the toaster, every time, staring at the stainless steel door he cannot see through, until Negan’s sandwich is done. 

In the noonday rush he was kind of hoping his boss would ask Negan to stop making him do that, mainly out of concern for the other customers and how it holds the line up, but no, Rick’s boss is almost as much a jackass as Negan. 

“I’m watching it,” Rick tells him, though really he’s just staring at the list of sub-of-the-week specials behind the sink. Twenty-five years old as of last Thursday. Twenty-five years old. His mind flits to the police academy, as it has for years; maybe now he could resubmit his application—

The toaster beeps and Rick grabs the handle before Negan can start yelling about his bread getting burnt from overcooking. He transfers the sub to the vegetable side (Maggie’s walking out the swinging door for the employees and hugging Glenn and Rick fucking hates his life) and looks up at Negan’s chin. 

“The usual here, too?” he asks, though it’s kind of a stupid question. If Negan ever took something different on his sub Rick’s pretty sure the world would explode. 

Negan makes a noise that both affirms this and implies, very strongly, that Rick probably fell on his head when he was a child. “Doin’ great, Rick,” he says, his tone suggesting that Rick is pretty close to maybe not doing so great. Though Rick’s already looking back down at the vegetables, trying very, very hard to remember the order—hundreds of customers in here a week and he’s expected to remember this order—

Tomatoes first. He’s positive of that because it’s some kind of thematic coloring scheme, the red tomato right over the pinkish ham. Then spinach, then banana peppers, then three jalapenos, placed at the start, middle, and end of the sub, then oil and vinegar, then—

“ _Rick,_ ” Negan says, or rather growls, and Rick jerks and smears a bit of oil over his apron. Fucking great. 

“Yes?” 

“Forgetting something there, are we?” Negan asks, lifting an eyebrow. Glancing at the top shelf of condiments. 

Fuck. Fucking fuck. Salt and pepper. Lightly sprinkled. Every time. Rick’s head is pounding at the temples; he’s this close to grabbing Negan by the collar and hauling him over the glass partition, demanding he make the fucking sandwich himself. The line behind Negan has grown exponentially and Michonne, making two sandwiches at once, is giving Rick a look that manages to convey both sympathy and irritation which for some reason is directed at him. Not that Rick would ever actually say anything to her; Michonne’s a good friend, but she scares the living shit out of him most days. 

“Do you want me to start the whole sandwich over?” Rick asks, already picking it up by each end. 

Negan raises the other eyebrow. “What the hell do you think?”

Ten minutes later Negan’s being rung up—still by Rick—for an Italian B.M.T. and a meal deal that includes chips—always sea salt and vinegar—a medium fountain drink—always Dr. Pepper—and a cookie—usually macadamia nut, except on the rare occasions he visits on Saturdays, and then it’s chocolate chip. When he hands his card over for Rick to swipe—they have the chip service, but Negan refuses to use his—their thumbs brush against the magnetic strip. Negan’s face doesn’t so much as twitch, but Rick feels a little shivery sensation run down his spine that he doesn’t like. He hands his card back a moment later, holding it very delicately by the edge. 

Negan says, “We’ll do better next time, won’t we, Rick,” and Rick, seething, says:

“We’ll certainly try.”

When Negan is gone Rick takes his usual five minutes in the back to shout muted expletives into a paper bag. Michonne comes in as he’s finishing up, gives his shoulder a squeeze.

“Do what I told you,” she says, her mouth twitching at the corner. “Use a pneumonic device.”

Rick closes his eyes. Tilts his face towards the ceiling. Everything smells like pepperoni and cleaning solution. “Yeah,” he says. 

~

He has a date with Lori that evening. It’s only their third date, nothing really official yet, but he likes her all right. If nothing else she can keep up her end of the conversation and doesn’t mind when Rick checks his phone for the football scores primarily because she’s checking her own for basketball. They meet up at the Italian place down the street from where she works and as always Rick tries very hard not to feel inadequate sitting in a booth that probably costs more than his car insurance. 

“How was your day?” she asks, giving his hand a squeeze; he’s already told her about Negan, and the noonday shift thing he’s pretty sure constitutes as stalking. 

He breathes out, stares at the wine menu. “Do you think they’ve got anything stronger here?” he asks in response, and she laughs. It’s a soft throaty sound that goes well with the crinkling of her eyes at the corners and the gentle fall of her hair. 

Not wanting to cloud their entire date with complaints about his work, which really could take hours to get through, he asks her about her job. The conversation is light and easy, the food is good, and she keeps bumping his leg with her ankle under the tablecloth. By the time he’s paid his check and is walking her out to her car she’s leaning almost fully on him, and not because she’s drunk. 

He knows what she wants. Where the evening could go. But standing by her car with her tiny hands in his he can’t make himself lean down to kiss her, can’t ask if she wants to come back to his place. He doesn’t even know what it is that’s stopping him, it isn’t like she’s ugly or annoying, but he just. Doesn’t want it, not tonight, and after a few seconds have dragged by with them staring awkwardly into each other’s faces he thinks she senses that and has the grace to pat his arm and tell him goodnight without making a scene. He walks to his car feeling like shit, like he’s somehow failed himself even further—though the logical part of his brain begs him to consider why an accountant would want to continue a serious relationship with a Subway worker—and drives home, ready to crash on the couch where he can watch Chopped until he passes out. 

He takes his oil-stained apron out of the backseat of his car where he’d left it crumpled in a heap with the rest of his uniform after work, tosses it into the hamper. His mind flits briefly to Negan, to that lifted eyebrow and the tense set of his mouth, the irrational anger. The flare of heat he’d felt and immediately suppressed when their thumbs brushed at the register. 

Rick shakes his head, tugs off his date clothes as well, and heads into the shower to jerk off. 

~

Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays are Rick’s days to work the evening shift, which means he doesn’t see Negan then. If Negan does come in no one ever complains about him to Rick after, which means he doesn’t harass whoever’s working, which makes Rick think either Negan doesn’t come in at all—which would be another sign he’s stalking him—or he only harasses Rick—which would be shit in and of itself. In any case Rick gets a break, Negan-flavored, and then Friday at exactly 12:05pm Negan comes sauntering through the door crinkling leather and denim and looking like he owns the entire fucking restaurant chain. 

“Fine day, huh, Rick,” he says, slinking up to the partition. 

Rick’s eyes cut to the windows. “Uh-huh,” he says, slow build-up of dread working its way into his stomach. After Wednesday his boss had texted him to ask why there was a fully dressed uneaten footlong in the trashcan and when he’d tried to explain he was immediately told to _just do better next time, Grimes,_ along with a tired-looking emoji Rick’s pretty sure it isn’t professional to use. Still no support from that quarter. 

“Been thinkin’ about my sandwich all morning,” Negan says, rolling his body forward a little. Rick wonders if it’s supposed to be a double entendre and then decides it really doesn’t matter. Even if his face has heated up at least three degrees under the hairnet. 

_Well good for you,_ Rick wants to say, _why don’t you fucking make it._ Instead, he reaches behind him, tugs out an Italian loaf. Negan makes a celebratory noise that should probably be reserved for baseball games, and several patrons pause their conversations to stare, for a moment, at the loud-mouthed leather-clad slick-haired man at least two feet taller than everyone else in the entire room. 

“Catching on, Rick,” Negan says. Like Rick hasn’t known to grab Italian bread for him every day for three full weeks now. 

“Yeah,” Rick says, trying to keep the irritation from creeping like venom into his tone. Pepperoni, salami, ham, Provolone. Folded exactly. He’s pretty sure army drills aren’t this precise. Though judging from the way Negan holds himself it’s entirely probable that’s where he got the idea in the first place. 

He puts the sandwich into the toaster, glances for a second at Negan and finds him doing this side-mouthed smirk, worrying his lower lip with one tooth. “Didn’t even have to tell you how to make it this time, did I,” he says. 

Rick breathes out. Patience is key. When he signed on to work at Subway he didn’t sign on to work with Negan, but then this is retail, and he should’ve known the assholes would come eventually. Not like Negan’s the first he’s ever dealt with. Just perhaps the most outspoken. 

“You’re one of our most regular customers,” he says. And one of the worst, he doesn’t add. “One of the only ones who orders the same exact thing every single time.” This is only partially true; plenty of people order the same thing, but none of them make Rick start over if there are four jalapenos instead of three. 

Negan grabs a pack of chips and does that stupid eyebrow lift he does sometimes when he’s trying to be emphatic about some point. “What can I say,” he says. “I like what I like,” and this time there’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words. His eyes, which for some reason Rick finds himself staring at today, have dropped to Rick’s mouth, and are lingering there as though drawn by some unseen force. When he catches Rick looking his mouth curves up further, and he says:

“Careful about my sandwich in there, Rick,” and Rick jerks like he’s been drowned and opens the toaster just as it’s started its incessant beeping. He puts the vegetables on so carefully it makes his hands shake, shockingly doesn’t forget the salt and pepper. He puts more oil and vinegar than usual and he thinks Negan’s going to give him shit for it but Negan doesn’t seem to care, shockingly, just knocks his hand against the cookie cabinet. Does the eyebrow thing again. 

“You know what I’m gonna ask for,” he says, and Rick feels his nostrils flare of their own accord. Offers up a tight smile as he reaches in, pulls out a macadamia nut cookie. He’s not entirely sure what Negan would do if one of his choices wasn’t available that day, if they’d run out, and frankly he doesn’t really want to find out. 

Negan takes out his credit card. In the folds of his wallet there’s a picture of a woman with brown hair and Rick would ask but being that he isn’t suicidal he just rings up Negan’s purchases, says:

“Your total’s gonna be eleven oh-three.”

“Jesus,” Negan says, more under his breath than out loud, and Rick briefly considers asking where the surprise is coming from when Negan buys the same damn thing three times a week, but decides against it. Takes the card, swipes it down. Watches Negan watching him out of the corner of his eye. It sparks that same brief and unwanted flare in Rick’s chest and he has to work at tampering it down; handing Negan’s card back by the very edge. 

“Here you go,” Rick says, sliding the sandwich over. 

Negan’s mouth turns up at the corners. “Thank _you,_ ” he says, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips. He picks the sandwich up, loops the plastic around his wrist. Heads over to the drinks fountain. Rick’s very nearly gotten rid of him when Negan booms out, “ _Rick!_ Come here for a second, gorgeous,” which he has absolutely never, never said before. Once he’s at the drinks he’s done. Every time. Rick glances helplessly at Michonne, who just raises her eyebrows, mouth twitching like she’s trying not to laugh. 

He walks through the swinging employees-only door and stands next to Negan. “Yes?” Polite as he can, hearing the tenseness creep in along the edges anyway.

Negan gestures at the straws area. “You see what’s wrong with this picture?”

Rick looks; almost at once he notices the missing tops, but for reasons unknown he says, “I’m afraid not.” Perhaps embarrassment, or maybe he really does have a death wish he just doesn’t know about. 

Negan shakes his cup, empty. “A medium top, Rick,” he says, in that strange low half-amused voice he takes on when Rick’s done something to displease him. “You’re out.”

“Well, it is our most popular size,” Rick says, and this time he really isn’t thinking, but Negan—fuck, Negan laughs, an almost surprised burst of sound that manages to be at once both mocking and genuine. 

“Could you grab one for me,” Negan doesn’t quite ask, and Rick opens the cabinet and pulls out the box containing tops. Negan takes one when offered, holds it up. Keeps his eyes on Rick’s as he pours himself some ice, and then the Dr. Pepper, and then screws the top on, and then punches in the straw. All the while Rick putting the rest of the tops into their rightful place and feeling his whole body growing warm, watching Negan watching him. Somewhat akin to the feeling he got when their thumbs brushed on Wednesday. He still hates it. 

When Negan’s done he walks back past the cash register and dings the ‘perfect sandwich’ bell so hard it rocks on its little stand. “See you next week, gorgeous,” he calls as he walks out, the air still ringing a little, and Rick runs into the back so he can run his hands through his hair without violating the health code. There are no clean paper bags and he has to resort to screaming into his apron, which despite washing it in Tide twice still smells faintly of oil. 

Coming in early for her afternoon shift, Sasha pauses to pat Rick on the arm. “Negan?”

“Negan,” Rick agrees, and drags a hand down his face. 

~

He’s got a date lined up with Lori for Saturday night. He’s pretty sure the period of time between the end of his shift and the date itself will give him time to cool down about Negan, but apparently his brain refuses to afford him respite because when he wakes in the morning the first thing he sees, hanging on the inside of his closet door, is his Subway apron. Naturally this makes him think of his job, which then of course turns to thoughts of Negan, since Negan is primarily what consumes him at his job these days, and by the time he’s fixed himself cereal and sat on the couch to watch whatever’s on TNT, he finds himself utterly incapable of letting the notion of Negan go. He can’t stop hearing that slur-thick drawl in his head: _I like what I like,_ complete with smirk and suggestive eyebrows. Can’t keep himself from picturing the broad shoulders under the leather jacket, the hint of t-shirt poking out from the hem, the massive sun-dark hands. The same thumb that brushed his own when he’d taken his credit card. That little electric thrill he’d felt when—

Rick shakes his head, turns the volume up. He’s probably just tired, got up too soon. 

Except the rest of the day is like that, even through a half-hour on the treadmill and a two-hour Candy Crush session on his phone. By the time he reaches the restaurant where he’s supposed to meet Lori, he’s frazzled beyond words, frustratingly turned on with no outlet. He can’t stop picturing in a vague way Negan’s broad fingers somewhere in his vicinity, the little flash of tongue when Negan finds something he says particularly amusing. 

Dinner is dinner, and they run out of things to say too fast. Lori checks basketball stats and lethargically pushes lettuce into her mouth for a while, then reaches over, pats Rick’s hand. 

“I don’t think this is going to work out,” she says, and Rick knows she’s remembering last time, the awkward scene in the parking lot. “I’m sorry.”

He can’t even argue, though he feels like shit for it. “I am too,” he says, and means it, because it should have worked, Lori’s the ideal girl, they even have a mutual friend—Shane—on Facebook, and Lori is pretty and funny and smart and Rick should not have spent three-quarters of this date with his mind drifting on the idea of Negan’s legs. 

She puts two twenties on the table for her end, kisses his cheek, and walks out. He thinks a part of him is relieved and he doesn’t want to acknowledge it so he pushes it down. Puts twenties on his side as well and goes to the bar, orders a shot of Jack. The football game he was trying not to check the stats for is on, and he’s in the middle of deciding whether or not to get drunk enough to become emotionally involved when he hears:

“Fuckin’ _unbelievable,_ ” behind him and spins around immediately because no, no, this cannot be happening, shit like this doesn’t happen in real—

“Rick!” Negan says, broad smile on his face like they’re friends. “Damn, and here I was thinkin’ I’d never see you out of that uniform.”

Rick swallows. Closes his eyes. This is the last thing he needs right now, or ever. He wonders if this is some kind of punishment because he didn’t try hard enough with Lori. 

“You waiting for someone?” Negan asks, moving over two stools so he can sit next to Rick. For a moment their knees brush under the bar as Negan situates himself and Rick feels it burning all the way up his thigh. When the shot of Jack appears before him he knocks it back as fast as he can, wincing at the brief raw ache in his throat. 

“Just saw them, actually,” Rick says, because no way in hell is he going to give Negan cannon fodder, telling him he was on a ruined date. Or give Negan fodder for a conversation, period. “Getting ready to leave, go home.”

Negan raises his eyebrows, brief amused tilt to his mouth Rick’s never seen. “Is that why you came over to sit at the bar alone?” 

Rick in no way wants to dignify this with a response. He slides the shot glass back over the bar, stares resolutely at his face reflected behind the bar. He isn’t sure if it’s the grimy surface of the mirror or something else but he looks like shit, hair out of place, eyes hollow. He can’t stop focusing on the warmth radiating off Negan’s thigh, nor the broad stretch of his shoulders. The smell of him even in the bar is distinctive, leather and cigarettes, and Rick tells himself it’s just his exhaustion from the date that’s making him want to press closer. 

“Are you alone?” Negan asks, when Rick hasn’t said anything for several seconds. 

“I just told you,” Rick says. “I’m about to leave.”

Negan’s eyes follow the shot glass as it makes its way back into Rick’s hand. “Yeah, you look like you’re in a real rush there,” he says, and Rick breathes out, knocks it back. Fuck, it’s going to be a long night. 

“Look, could you just—” He tenses his mouth, watches his reflection do the same, thin and pale. “It’s been a long day. Really—and I don’t even know you—”

“Hey, now, that hurts,” Negan says, setting his own drink down so he can put a hand over his heart, mock sincerity. “I see you three times a week, Rick. At least.”

“Yes,” Rick says, “at Subway. Where I make your sandwich.”

Negan flashes him that grin. Slip of the tongue. Rick feels something heated and unwelcome crawl up his spine, resolves not to order anymore drink. “And you do such a damn fine job of it, too.”

“Oh, really,” Rick says, kicking his former resolution to the curb in place of a newer, better one: order a third shot. Because Negan isn’t shutting the fuck up. “So is that why you harass me if I put a jalapeno an inch out of place on the fucking—on the salami?”

Negan does a strange, hoarse laugh that Rick can’t tell if he likes. “God forbid you’d actually put the jalapenos on the salami,” he says, and Rick bolts more Jack down, decides he’s getting drunk enough for that to be funny, and lets himself smile. For a second. 

“Anyway,” Rick says, with his thigh now definitely on Negan’s, where he seems to have moved closer of his own accord, “my point is, we don’t know each other. Outside of my work. So I don’t have to talk to you here.”

Negan snorts. “Okay.”

More Jack. Like, two more shots. Maybe. “Wanna know a secret?” he asks. 

“Yeah, Rick, I really do.”

Rick leans in. Negan’s scent becomes even stronger; Rick identifies the aftershave he’s wearing, as well as three tiny gray hairs on his chin. “I do not like you,” Rick says. 

“That isn’t a secret,” Negan says, grinning. “C’mon, Rick. I know you can impress me better than that.”

Rick takes a deep breath. In for a penny. “I wasn’t here alone.” 

Negan whistles, shakes his head. “The things you learn.”

“I was with a _date._ ” Rick whispers this rather loudly with no real idea of why. Receives his next shot and tosses it back, puts it down with perhaps more force than he’d intended. Loosens the collar of his shirt. “She left,” he adds, and jerks his thumb in the approximate direction of the door. 

Negan’s looking at him fully now, his body turned and open in a way Rick decides he is definitely too drunk to dissect at this point. “Damn,” he says. “You must’ve never made her a sandwich.”

This is funny, though Rick thinks in some distant part of his brain it wouldn’t be quite so if he hadn’t just finished his fifth—or was it his sixth?—shot. “I never did,” he agrees, and then: “I’ve made you fuckin’ plenty of sandwiches.”

“Yeah.”

Rick’s hand is on Negan’s chest, and he’s not sure how it got there. He can feel the faint beat of his heart under the layer of his shirt, the heat of his skin radiating like a furnace. “You’re so ungrateful,” Rick says, glaring at the lining of Negan’s leather jacket. “You like—y’know, sometimes I think you just come into Subway and order that shit all precise just to fuck with me.”

“Maybe I just get really turned on by elaborate footlongs,” Negan says, and Rick might be drunk but there is no mistaking the direction Negan’s eyes travel. He reaches down with the hand that isn’t on Negan’s chest, squeezes his own thigh. His heart is suddenly pounding.

“That is the worst—” Rick moves closer— “the worst fucking pick up line I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Rick,” Negan says, “I think it got your attention just fine.” He reaches out, briefly touches Rick’s jaw. “Did anyone ever tell you you’ve got gorgeous fucking eyes?”

Rick swallows. “You’re always calling me gorgeous,” he mumbles, and Negan nods:

“‘cause you are,” he says, and then, “Look, are we gonna fuckin’ do this or not?”

“Hell yeah,” Rick says, and scrambles off his stool. 

Five minutes later they’re backed into a stall in the men’s room, door locked, Rick’s pants shoved halfway down, Negan’s wrist working furiously. Rick is trying really hard not to make any noise and subsequently keeps moaning every time Negan’s hand moves on his dick, palm slick and slippery with the complimentary soap as well as with his own spit. Rick doesn’t know how to keep himself balanced and as such has a hand on the toilet paper dispenser, hoping to god it won’t break off. His hips jerking up into Negan’s hand, his breath coming short and choppy. 

“Fuckin’ wanted you like this for ages,” Negan’s growling against his neck, where he’s sucking on the skin not quite hard enough to bruise. 

“Hairnets and— _fuck,_ and green shirts must really do something for—for you,” Rick says, with shocking coherency. 

Negan shrugs, a rather monumental feat to accomplish while fucking Rick’s cock with his fist. “I like what I like,” he says, for what must be the third time that week, and Rick says:

“Quit recycling your lines, cheapskate,” and then all the pressured heat in his body gathers up and hits him at once, and he comes, whining, all over Negan’s fingers. His hips juddering, mouth screwed up. Face tilted towards the ceiling. 

Negan groans, watching. “Fuck yeah,” he says. “I fucking told you. Fuckin’ gorgeous.” 

“You are shit at sweet talking, my friend,” Rick says, feeling a little dizzy. He watches dazed as Negan takes his hand off his dick, wraps it around his own. Turns so he can brace himself against the wall over the toilet, comes into the bowl. He does himself up after, turns back to face Rick with an eyebrow raised. 

“You waiting for a written invitation, princess?” he asks. “We can leave now.”

Something seems to crash down on Rick’s head, something small but significant that makes him suddenly, vitally aware of the fact that he’s still leaning against the bathroom stall, cock hanging out with come slowly drying on the tip, crusted on the edge of his fucking dress shirt that he wore on his fucking date. His stupid, ruined date. Ruined because of—

He does his pants up with trembling fingers and backs out without looking. It’s a disoriented moment under the fluorescent lights, everything smelling like sex and restaurant hand soap. Negan washes his hands, then turns, leans against the sink mostly with his ass and his palms. When he tilts his head and smirks Rick feels disconcertingly less drunk than he did two minutes ago. Though he’s pretty sure that has to do with the fact that he no longer has Negan’s entire hand on his cock. Distracting him with that fucking body less than an inch from his own. 

“I’m thinkin’ that even with getting ditched, this evening has got to be in your top five,” says Negan, and Rick exhales, scrapes his dirty filthy sex-scented hand down his face. He can still taste Jack at the back of his throat. 

“Aw, don’t be rude, Rick,” Negan says, watching him. “Especially since I’m the one who had to get both of us off tonight—”

He’s definitely not as drunk as he’d thought he was. Though he wishes he could be even more so. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t blare this news to everyone on Monday,” Rick says. Staring at the sink and the soap dispenser and wondering how much effort it would take to get to either without Negan cornering him, which, considering that hungry and amused expression on his face, is something well within the realms of possibility.

“I’m flattered you think I give that much of a shit about the people you work with.” 

Rick draws in a breath. “Just—please?”

Negan makes a noise somewhere on the spectrum of a snort, pushes away from the sink. “Jesus, Rick,” he says. “No. I’m not gonna say shit.” He walks forward, and Rick thinks for one (heart-stopping-shattering-terrified-quickening) moment that he’s coming towards him again, but he makes a detour to the door instead. “I will be there, though,” he says. “You know the drill by now, gorgeous.”

Rick pinches the bridge of his nose. “See you Monday,” he says, without looking up. 

It feels like a long time before the door swings shut. But when Rick finally makes himself tear his eyes from the tile floor he’s alone. Staring first at the opposite wall, and then upon turning at his reflection. Still as haunted as it had been behind the bar. His cheeks a little flushed, from the drink or from the sex, he isn’t sure. 

He washes his hands, splashes the hem of his shirt with some water. Tries not to think of the deft, experienced way Negan had gotten him off. The neat twists of the wrist and the sharp breaths as he’d coaxed Rick into coming. 

_This evening has got to be in your top five._ He’s not sure about that; Negan’s probably pushing his ego too hard. But Rick would be lying if he said it wasn’t a better evening than he thinks it started out to be. 

He allows himself five seconds of guilt over thinking that. Then he gathers himself together and texts Michonne to see if she can come pick him up, just in case he really is, actually, literally drunk. Which he hopes he is. God, he hopes he is.

~

He wakes hungover. It doesn’t make him feel any better. 

~

Monday, noonish, Negan comes slinking into Subway, carrying with him the scattered sounds of traffic and leaves on pavement. He looks straight at Rick as he always does and his eyes crack across Rick’s like a violent and unending crescendo of thunder. His mouth twitches, gaze drops. When he reaches the partition it already feels like Rick’s gone years without breathing. 

“The usual?” Rick asks, conscious of every part of himself—apron, plastic hairnet, the little gold nametag that Negan had first read out loud a month ago on Wednesday, the small nick on his jaw where he cut himself shaving. 

“You’re too good to me, gorgeous,” Negan says. Tongue appearing and disappearing heartbeat-quick behind his lips. His hands flex on the chip holder and Rick remembers those fingers, the rough catch and pull, the broad stretch of the palm. 

He’s shaking when he pulls out the paper. The Italian loaf. He can barely cut it in a straight line. Maggie, getting ready to clock out for her lunch, gives him a strange look he ignores. Pepperoni. Salami. Ham. Toaster—

“ _Richard.”_ It’s an admonition, a little annoyed, but the depth of the voice to which it is attached cancels out all other tones. The way he says Rick’s full name makes it sound like he’s already rolled on the condom. “What the hell, gorgeous. Where’s our head today.” He taps on the glass and Rick kind of wants to launch himself over the partition and strangle him in front of what looks like minimum fifteen witnesses. 

Instead, he draws a deep breath. Throws out the sandwich. Restarts. Ignores Maggie slinging her apron off, heading out to meet Glenn. This time he remembers the cheese. Remembers the whole thing, even the salt and pepper. The three jalapenos in a row. Negan maintains an intense, borderline aggressive eye contact with him the whole time. Rick won’t look away, even though his heart is pounding so hard it’s making his nametag shake a little. He finds it laughable that just last week, he was incapable of maintaining eye contact with this man. Though frankly he doesn’t blame himself: it feels like mainlining electricity.

“There you go,” Negan says, when the sandwich, the chips, the cookie, and the drink have all been rung up. “Though we both know that sandwich-making isn’t your only skill, don’t we, Rick.” With a smirk as he hands over his card, fingers brushing Rick’s knuckles. Again throwing him back into the bathroom stall, Negan’s hands, the sweaty grip he’d had on the toilet paper dispenser. The smell of cleaner and soap that took hours to get out of his nose. 

Michonne, who had driven Rick home without asking questions Saturday night, is steadily pretending not to listen from her position over the vegetables. Rick feels his cheeks burning; he scans Negan’s card, hands it back. His eyes fall to that picture in Negan’s wallet, the dark-haired woman, smile tucked into her cheek as she just barely gazes at the camera. 

He opens his mouth to ask. But then he remembers they aren’t friends. A handjob and a voyeuristic session of watching someone else jerk off in a cramped bathroom stall doesn’t make for much of a personal conversation starter. Instead, he pushes the sandwich, the chips, and the cookie across the metal surface of the counter. Forces himself to smile. 

“Enjoy your day,” he says. Those eyes still so intense on his. Rick is only aware other people are in the room on a half-conscious level. 

“Oh, I will,” Negan says, still with the side of his mouth hitched up, and walks to the drinks machine. 

Rick stares after him as he pours his soda, walks out. Only remembers to move once he’s pushed open the door, let the disjointed cacophony of midday through on the breeze. 

~

Rick works ten to six on Mondays. In general when he gets off he goes home, orders in, and tries really hard not to think about how flat his life feels. Like scum on dishes that have been sitting too long in the sink. But tonight, instead, he drives over to the Chinese place a couple blocks over, peeling paint on the walls, faded lettering over the door. The inside smells as always of fried rice and chicken, the air in the kitchen solid with steam, and Rick gets in line. Tugs his wallet out of his back pocket. 

He feels the eyes on him just seconds before the voice rings out, distinctive and loud even over the clatter of the restaurant: 

“ _Rick!_ You sweet, sweet gorgeous thing, you have _got_ to quit following me.”

Fuck. 

He looks up. Negan’s sitting in a booth, alone, across the room. Leather jacket tight across his shoulders. He stands halfway, does a dorky wave, accompanied by that shit-eating grin that sends mixed emotions railing up Rick’s spine. His pants barely hang onto his hips, courtesy of some special force beyond the normal laws of gravity. 

Rick can’t even say he’s surprised Negan’s here. Nor that he’s crossing the room, leaning against the waist-high partition between the dining and waiting areas. Still grinning, expectant. One eyebrow a little bit raised up as he murmurs:

“Hell, Rick, if you wanted a repeat of Saturday all you had to do was ask,” at a suggestively low volume that has Rick’s stupid fucking spine tingling even more. 

“You left your egg rolls,” Rick says, by way of answering, nodding towards Negan’s abandoned booth. 

“I found something much more worthy of my attention,” Negan says, and does this hip thrust that absolutely in no way makes Rick laugh. 

The line moves up. Negan’s fingers drag over the partition as he moves and Rick’s mind supplies with a brief, unhelpful image of his own hand underneath. 

“You here with a date, too?” Negan asks. When Rick shakes his head, Negan’s mouth does that stupid twitch at the corner. “You should come sit with me, then.”

 _What, as your date?_ Rick just stops himself from asking. Instead: “Why are you only nice to me when I’m not serving you food?”

Negan looks briefly surprised. Covers it quickly with a flash of teeth, a flex of the hand. “I’m always nice to you, gorgeous.” 

“You really, really aren’t.” The line moves so that Rick is no longer standing directly beside the partition; he gestures at Negan’s booth. “Go sit down before someone takes your shit.”

Negan’s watching him; Rick can feel the intensity of those eyes on his back even without looking. “You gonna come join me?” he asks again, something strange and rough in his voice. 

“I—” Rick hesitates. Staring at the menu. Mind on the bathroom stall, on the way Negan had lingered after for just a moment too long. On the slight, slight reduction of his antics at Subway today, how Rick hadn’t been able to look away from his amber glass eyes. “Maybe,” he says, and Negan slams his hand down on the partition hard enough that the woman behind Rick jumps. 

“ _That’s_ what I like to hear,” he says, and, “See you in a little bit, beautiful.” Rick hears him walk off, the soft creak of his jacket. _Beautiful_ clanging around in his head as he walks up to the food bar, orders his sweet and sour pork with fried noodles and soy sauce. He stands leaning against the wall by the cash register after he’s paid, steadily not looking over at Negan despite the fact that he’s sure, he’s positive he can still feel his eyes on him. 

He doesn’t think he should be spending time with this man who makes him waste so much food, who is so forceful and demanding of him at his job. At least Saturday he’d had the excuse that he was drunk—but then again, he also hadn’t blocked Negan out when he’d started talking to him at the bar. And Rick had definitely been completely sober then. Plus, there’s all the little passing thoughts he’s been having about him, especially about his hands, and it’s just—it’s harmless. Isn’t it?

Rick gets his food, walks over to the booth. Negan is sprawled out on one side, languid stretch of legs clad in tight denim, jacket lifted up over his waist where his arms are spread out behind his head. He looks like the hedonistic debauched cover of some motorcycle porn ad, if such a thing were to exist. Rick’s eyes scope out the casual lines of his body almost without intention and he feels his face heating up at the way Negan looks right back at him. Like he knows. Mouth pulled up. He moves his arms down from behind his head, folds them across the white of his shirt. Nods at the seat across from him, taps it with his boot. 

Rick puts his plate down. “Could you move your legs?”

Negan’s smile stretches wider. “Could you ask nicely?”

Rick takes a deep breath. “Okay, quit being an ass and move your fucking legs, Negan.”

Negan laughs out loud, that strange mix of sarcasm and genuine humor. He folds his legs back, tucks one foot against the side of the booth. Rick sits. Negan’s knees bump against his, a firm and overwarm press of movement as he situates himself. He stabs at one of his egg rolls with perhaps more force than necessary and when he slides it into his mouth Rick can’t look away fast enough to avoid the sight of his tongue flicking out to catch flakes of fried dough. 

It’s quiet between them for a few minutes. Not an uncomfortable silence, which Rick thinks feels more normal than it should. He can feel Negan exuding that intensity he carries around with him without even trying. Keeps wanting to look up at him and then losing his nerve. Though Negan’s eyes themselves have never left Rick, not since he sat down. 

Rick thinks of how easy it would be to just eat his entire dinner with Negan in this strange silence. To get up and walk away and pretend none of this happened. But as he’d reasoned with himself back in the line it’s still harmless, and he’s still aware, on some level, of Negan’s hands, and now also his legs, which in the tight space beneath the booth have remained slightly pressed to Rick’s. It’s just dinner, and Negan isn’t being cruel, isn’t making fun of his choice of food or the way he eats, and Rick finds himself clearing his throat. 

“So, uh,” he says, more to the noodles on his fork. “What do you do?”

Negan raises his eyebrows. “As in my job?”

“Yeah.” 

Negan’s foot brushes his a little too exact to be mistaken for anything other than deliberate. “Well, Rick, I didn’t think you cared.” Hand over his heart, teasing. Rick bites a smile into his cheek, an instinctive and helpless reaction. 

“It’s pretty hard to express any interest when all you’re doing is jerking me off or harassing me,” he points out. Negan makes a little noise; Rick can’t tell if it’s a laugh, still can’t quite make himself look up enough to tell. 

“I’d say you showed plenty of interest when I had my hand on your—”

“Could you just answer the question without being an asshole, maybe.” Though he’s still smiling, and surprises himself a second later by pressing his own knee back against Negan’s. Looking up in time to catch the fleeting end of his smile, small, hidden by another egg roll. 

“I’m a baseball coach,” he says. “Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and alternate weekends, anyway. Rest of the time I sell cars.”

Rick raises his eyebrows. “A coach?” He snorts; he knows it’s rude, he can’t help it. Anyway it’s never stopped Negan before. “Really?”

“Why is that always such a fuckin’ surprise,” Negan says, but his mouth is twitching like he knows. “Yeah, I coach afternoons at the high school. ‘s why I come to your work then. Got time.”

Rick just looks at him. Negan rolls his eyes. “The fact that it coincides with your shift is just a plus, gorgeous. Don’t flatter yourself.” But it’s the first time all evening that he hasn’t looked directly at Rick, instead focused on pushing the rice around on his plate. 

After a few seconds: “What about you?”

“You know where I work, Negan.” Rick gestures at the uniform shirt he’s still wearing, the khaki pants. 

“Yeah,” Negan says, “but I mean—was there a lifelong aspiration to work at Subway? Was it part of your major?”

Rick can’t quite tell if he’s serious; Negan’s eyes are crinkled at the corners, but then they always are. “I—” He hesitates. Watches Negan’s face. The expression doesn’t change. Doesn’t turn mocking. Instead there’s a strange sincerity there, as if he’s really, honestly interested in Rick’s answer. His knee is brushing Rick’s again, under the table, and he told Rick where he works already, and he’s just sitting here now, not making fun of him or being rude or loud or obnoxious, and Rick takes a breath. _In for a penny,_ he thinks, wondering if that’s going to become his mantra around Negan—and then wondering when, however subconsciously, he started to want meeting up with Negan to become a regular thing. “No. Not always.”

There must be something in his voice he doesn’t hear because Negan slaps the table, grinning. “I knew there was a fuckin’ story behind those sad fuckin’ eyes,” he says. 

Rick takes a breath. “It’s really not that much of a story,” he says. “Just—when I was younger, I wanted to be a police officer. So when I got to college I started looking into how I could get that going. Except I had this friend, Shane, who wanted to be on the force too—and Shane’s one of those guys who, y’know—he gets everything he wants. So we both applied to the academy senior year—but only Shane got in.” He scoffs a little, stares out the window at the steadily darkening sky. “Now he’s sheriff’s deputy. And I’m a fucking sandwich artist.”

“Best sandwich artist in the city, though,” Negan says.

“Oh, really,” Rick says, a little dry. 

Negan makes a face at him. It’s mildly inappropriate for a man Rick’s pretty sure is at least ten years older than him, if not more, but it serves its purpose of getting him to laugh, even if he does try to disguise it in his noodles. Strangely he doesn’t feel that same pressing anger that usually accompanies any thought, however fleeting, that he has of the academy and Shane. That sense of failure, like his degree, his apartment, aren’t enough. It’s a point his parents like to drive home the few times they call a month. But Negan’s just laughing with him, knocking his boot against Rick’s leg, making some stupid comment about Rick’s subs being all he gets up in the mornings for. 

They spend the rest of dinner like that, warm and comfortable. Conversation with Negan is easier than Rick would have assumed; they talk a little more about Negan’s job at the dealership, which downshifts naturally into a discussion of favorite cars, which moves into favorites in general. They discover they both like eighties horror films—though Negan prefers psychological horror over slasher, and _It Follows_ ends up winning out the discussion despite its release date—and share an interest in classic rock. Rick is surprised to learn Negan grew up listening to grunge in his father’s basement, Pearl Jam and Stone Temple and Soundgarden. Negan mouth-sings the bassline to “Plush” while they’re taking their plates to the trashcans; he slings an arm across Rick’s shoulders as they walk out and Rick is too full and too much in a good mood to shrug him off. Anyway it feels natural, in a way it hasn’t between Rick and another person for a long time. 

They walk to Rick’s car; Negan leans against the driver’s side door, casual sprawl of body. Hips canted out as he folds his arms across his chest, regards Rick with lidded eyes, head tilted. 

“What?” Rick asks. His heartbeat quickening under his shirt. 

“Nothing,” Negan says, sounding amused. He reaches out with one hand, adjusts Rick’s collar. His thumb scrapes Rick’s throat and Rick fights to suppress a shiver. “Walkin’ me to your car, though, Rick. That’s pretty forward of you.”

“I didn’t walk you to my car,” Rick says. “I came out here, and you followed me.”

“Sitting with me for a whole dinner,” Negan says. “Talking about shit instead of fucking around in a bathroom stall.”

“One of us has to be a decent human being.”

“So fuckin’ rude, Rick.” But he’s smiling. His hand still on Rick’s shoulder, like he forgot it there.

“You are officially never allowed to talk to me about rudeness,” Rick says, “considering the shit you put me through at work.”

“Well, hell, Rick,” Negan says. “Tomorrow’s a brand new fuckin’ day. You never know. Maybe I’ll change.” He slides his hand off his shoulder, pushes off the car. Moves in close enough that Rick can see the tiny gray hairs on his jaw even in the shadowed light of the streetlamps. There’s something about the scent of him that sends Rick right back into that restaurant bathroom; his dick twitches, watching Negan stare at his mouth. 

“Oh, really?” Rick asks. 

Negan grins. “Miracles do happen, gorgeous.”

Rick rolls his eyes. “Don’t be cheesy, it doesn’t suit you.” He’s staring at Negan’s mouth too, can’t really help it, close as they are. He had a good time tonight, better than he’d admit out loud. For all that Negan gives him shit Rick thinks he really did want him there, that Negan enjoyed the dinner as much as Rick did.

Negan says, “I would never,” like he’s offended, and both of them laugh. It’s a warm moment; something foreign and tight flutters in Rick’s chest, and it’s all too easy to reach out, hook his fingers in Negan’s belt loops. He pulls himself forward, listening to his shoes scrape against asphalt. He’s trembling like he’s a teenager again. 

“I knew you wanted me again, cornflower,” Negan says, gravel-rough. As casual as if they’ve been using nicknames on each other for years. As though this wasn’t the first night they spent together sober. 

“You’re presumptuous—”

“And you’ve got your dick pressed against me in a parking lot, Rick, we’ve all got faults.” Negan reaches into Rick’s back pocket and Rick thinks he’s going for an ass grope until he fishes out Rick’s car keys, inserts them in the door lock. “C’mon, gorgeous, we ain’t goin’ to jail over this.”

Rick snorts. Edges past Negan into the driver’s seat. A moment later Negan’s rounding the car, getting in on the other side. He kicks aside an ancient crumpled Styrofoam cup from White Castle, a water stained roadmap of Atlanta. A couple cassettes Rick’s pretty sure don’t work anymore, his high school spidery writing still barely visible on the covers. 

“Jesus,” Negan says, loud, slamming his hand down on the dashboard. “You need to fucking clean your damn car out sometimes, Rick.”

Rick glares at him. “Shut up.” 

“Sure, gorgeous,” Negan says, and grins. Teeth flashing in the dark. 

Rick glances around to make sure no one’s watching, then pushes up the arm rests on the console between them, moves so that he’s almost thigh-to-thigh with Negan in the front seat. He puts his hand on Negan’s chest, faux casual; he can feel Negan’s heart under his shaking fingers. He lets his hand travel down, slow, maintaining eye contact; Negan watches him, for once silent, serious, his eyes fixed on Rick’s mouth. 

“Eager, are we?” Negan asks when Rick’s hands start fumbling at his zipper. “I didn’t realize I’d had that kind of effect on you—”

“Oh my god,” Rick says, and leans in a little, and kisses him. It’s mostly to shut him up at first, getting his dick out between them and stroking, but quickly it dissolves into something hot and wet and messy. Negan rocking into Rick’s hand, breathing out into his mouth. Sharp pained noises, one hand clutching the back of Rick’s head. The other working between Rick’s own legs. It’s too cramped a space for both of them to jerk each other off at the same time so Rick finishes Negan off first, until he’s panting and their lips are sticky and clinging mostly by saliva, then Negan gets him out and Rick fucks into his fist, knee banging against the steering wheel when it’s particularly good—which it generally is. Negan’s free hand still curled into his hair. 

Afterwards the entire car smells like a combination of cigarettes, sex, and fast food; it’s humid with their combined sweat and with the heat that radiates off Negan like a furnace. Rick is very conscious of the way Negan keeps staring at his mouth; he can still taste Negan in the back of his throat. Wonders what kind of protocol must change between them, now that he’s sucked on Negan’s tongue. 

Negan says, “Well, this evening went better than I was expecting,” and then, shockingly, reaches into his jacket. Pulls out a pen and a scrap of paper. Scrawls something on it, drops it in Rick’s lap. 

“If you wanna call, gorgeous,” he says. “Line’s always open.”

“What’d I tell you about being cheesy,” Rick says, staring down at the phone number. His face faintly burning at the edges. 

“It suits me,” Negan says, laughing, and slips out of the car before Rick can correct him. “See you Wednesday, Rick,” and then he’s gone, heading off to his own car. Whistling some song Rick can’t catch through the wind blowing across the lot. 

He enters Negan’s number into his phone, stares at the name for a while in his contacts list. He has no idea what in the hell he’s doing; it probably isn’t the greatest idea in the world, probably shouldn’t be fucking around with the guy who was making him scream into paper bags until very recently, but even so he drives home with one hand on his warm mouth. Smiling. 

~

Tuesday morning Shane announces on Facebook that he’s in a relationship with Lori. Rick fixes himself a bowl of cereal and realizes with very little surprise that he doesn’t care. 

Negan texts him a picture of an eggplant. Rick shoots back: _Is that life size, or?_

 _Jesus, Rick, you have a dirty mind. That’s just what I want on my sandwich tomorrow._ Pause. _And you know it isn’t._ Followed by the suggestive looking emoji Rick hates more than anything. He tries very hard not to laugh, therefore. Doesn’t entirely succeed.

_So you’re switching your order up? I can finally stop reaching for the Italian every time I see you walk in the door?_

_You shouldn’t make assumptions, Rick. You know what I like._

_I really do._

~

As always, the following day Negan blows through the doors at 12:05pm. Rick watches him approach the counter, lean against it. 

“Afternoon, Rick,” he says. 

Rick tenses his hands on the counter. “Could you wait like—half an hour?” he asks. 

Negan tilts his head. “Why?”

“I um. I thought we could—” Rick glances briefly at Michonne, who is pretending not to watch him out of the corners of her eyes. “Do you wanna go eat somewhere, maybe?” 

Negan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well, shit, Rick,” he says. Louder than he needs to. “Are you asking me on a date?”

Rick breathes out. _Maybe, yes, if you wanted it to be,_ says a traitorous part of his brain that evidently still belongs in high school. “I just—wanna tell you something,” he says. 

He expects Negan to laugh, or to thrust his hips. To make some embarrassing reference to Monday night. But Negan just steps back from the counter, hands up. “Will do,” he says, heading towards the back wall. When he leans against the grid map of New York he sticks his hands in his pockets and Rick doesn’t know why it sends a bolt of heat straight down his spine. All he can think of is how, just last week, he was trying to deny a jolt when their thumbs brushed. 

“Thirty minutes, gorgeous!” Negan calls across the room, and Rick smiles down at the cheese. 

~

He makes Negan’s sandwich at the start of his lunch break. Doesn’t forget any ingredients—though, shockingly, Negan barely gives him any shit, only taps at the glass once, and seems to be doing it more out of habit than anything else. Scans Negan’s card. When Negan takes it back Rick’s eyes drop as always to the dark-haired woman in the wallet, except this time Negan’s follow his. There’s a twist to his mouth as he takes his cup off its stack, heads to the drinks machine. Rick slips his apron off in the back, joins Negan outside on one of the stone benches lining the store. 

“Her name was Lucille,” Negan says. His voice catches, jagged, on the past tense, nothing like any other time Rick’s heard him speak. “She was a long time ago.” He rubs his left hand absently. Takes a drink, mouth wrapped around the straw. 

Rick nods. Stares down at his own menial lunch—soggy salad from somewhere in the back of his fridge, wilted lettuce and pale tomatoes. It isn’t especially cold outside, but even so when he pushes his leg against Negan’s under the table, Negan doesn’t protest. 

“So what’d you keep me waiting on my lunch for?” Negan asks, after a while. Hands wrapped around his sandwich. 

Rick closes his eyes, briefly. _In for a penny,_ he thinks; reminds himself again that this is not, in fact, high school. “I—really enjoy spending time with you,” he says. “I don’t know why.”

Negan laughs, sharp surprised burst of sound. “I do give great handjobs—”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not all—I mean. You.” He breathes out; he can’t explain it. They’ve only met up twice outside of Rick’s work now but there’s something. There’s something. Rick doesn’t know how to say that without embarrassing himself; Negan saves him the trouble. 

“You _like_ me, don’t you, gorgeous.” With a grin that only grows wider the longer Rick tries to keep his mouth shut. “That’s all right. Hey.” He knocks his boot against Rick’s under the table; when Rick looks up, Negan’s watching him, that serious look on his face again. Mouth softening at the corners. “I—yeah. It’s the same for me, too.”

That warm feeling is spreading through Rick’s chest. Gaining familiarity. He says, “So does that mean you’ll stop making me throw away your sandwiches?” and Negan says:

“Well, I’m not a fucking fortune teller, Rick,” and they both laugh. Negan leans in, hand braced on the bench. Sucks at Rick’s bottom lip, coaxing. Teeth lightly scraping the skin. 

“Is this gonna become a pattern with us?” Rick asks, breathing the question into Negan’s mouth. 

Negan’s fingers come to rest, just lightly, on top of Rick’s knuckles. “I sure as shit hope so, cornflower.”

~

Friday when Negan comes in, he’s laughing. Rick’s own mouth is twitching upwards, has been from the moment he saw Negan’s car pull into the parking lot. Rick’s still got a bruise on his neck from last night; Negan’s eyes are drawn towards it, inexorably. Rick gets the feeling that if he could, Negan would reach across the glass partition, rub at it with his thumb.

The sex is great. That was established already in the restaurant bathroom last weekend. But they’ve also got tickets to see the Falcons next weekend, and later tonight Rick’s going to Negan’s house to, quote, “get fucking _wrecked_ in Grand Theft Auto”. Rick thinks it’s supposed to be both a play on words and a challenge that Rick cannot play video games as well as Negan. But there’s something incredibly compelling about the idea of spending a whole evening with him, just the two of them with pizza and pixelated violence. Something that serves to further the warm feeling in Rick’s chest. 

“The usual?” Rick asks. 

Negan sets his hands down on the counter. Leans. Tall and solid and so fucking attractive it blows Rick’s mind, and this is only the start. 

“Surprise me,” Negan says.


End file.
